Wednesday, November 30, 2005

A while back, when Evite first came online (and before I developed an irrational dislike for them) one was drafted for an event that ultimately never happened. (Kid’s Choice Awards party)Since everyone already knew where I lived (parents) I thought it would be humorous to list the location as some remote faraway backwater.A few minutes of Mapquesting landed me in the down of Moosonee, a little town in the backyard of Canada.I went as far as finding the phone number of the town’s Chinese restaurant and actually called them for the day’s specials.It wasn’t really a prank as I was sincerely interested in what they’d been serving, except when they asked if I would like to order, I panicked and hung up.I was never good at prank calls.

Yes, yes, all in good fun, I’m so hilarious.

But in the years since, Moosonee has occupied a fond little spot in the greyest of my grey matter.But the town’s website has been removed or is under construction or some such nonsense.So in a way to make up for a perceived wrong, here’s my little tribute to a town that was once the butt of a lame joke that I never told.Perhaps one day I’ll make the trek and have a tasty Chinese dinner.

But first, I would be remissed to mention the website of Paul Lantz who seems to have spent much of the past few years chronicling the town’s goings-on. He takes some pretty beautiful shots and it’s also a good place to start for a little history of the place.

Where to go if you want to learn secret handshakes and sponsor my little league soccer team.

Moosonee has even inspired the giants of Canadian literature!Though the review seems rather harsh.

And much more!

There doesn’t seem to be a website for the Chamber of Commerce or Tourism Board but I would like to suggest a slogan for the town.I think Moosonee is Moosoneat! would be one that Urban Outfitters could really run with.Cuz making fun of Utah is so retro.

3. I am entering month five of Dental Boycott. I didn’t have a cavity until my twenties, so I’m in denial about the fact that I now have adult teeth with adult enamel, and this big adult responsibility to take care of these adult teeth. Part of the avoidance is my new-ish dentist, a combo of robot and man, who extra-creepily-paranoid wears three sets of gloves (the second/middle pair OVER his shirt cuffs) and puts all gloves on in a weird, OCD kind of way – slowly, methodically, as if he is really really turned on by his gloves. You know he’s a latex guy. My old dentist, now that was a man I was truly in love with. He is a filthy rich Casey Kasem-looking dude with a year-round yacht tan, and he knows me by name, and I once asked him if he could file my incisors into sharp pointy fangs for me but he wouldn't, so that shows he is responsible. All his dentistry involved computer screens similar to "Minority Report." For Christmas one year, my mother bought me teeth filing/bonding to a sweet several hundred dollar tune. The bonding needs repair, and I’m pretty sure I have a full-blown cavity now, instead of just the bad spot Dr. Robot pointed out in July. SO! Do I go to handsome smiley tan Doctor Tim and pay out the ass, or do I go to Dr. R. and just deal???? People, I need your bougie opinions on my cosmetic dentistry, posthaste. PS. Related: sometimes even otters have to go to the dentist. PPS. Dentists are the only people who get angry at you if you give them business.

8. The dog's last class in "obedience school" is tonight. Here's to hoping they give them all tiny paper graduation hats with tassels to wear. There is very little funnier than an animal wearing a hat, except for maybe a pudgy kid falling off a bike or my 85 year old aunt talking about clones, but I think we've covered that.

9. Listen, if J. Hopper ever wants to, you know, hang in the Nats Cap and go see a pony show and get popsicles or whatever afterwards, may I totally extend the formal invitation now.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Happy birthday to Ben, turning 30 this very day. The first time I ever hung out with Ben, he brought 2 cases of St. Ides 40s over to S's apartment and solidified if not my immediate love and devotion, at least my 23-year old respect.

People, it was a trying ordeal, but I lived through it, and so did Ben.

(In other news, it's 67 degrees out and there are reports of snowflakes. What would be a cooler birthday present than the end of the world? Listen, it’s like Patton Oswalt says: when you get to heaven, at least then you have a very cool story about how you died. Who wants to say "hit by bus" or "heart attack" when you can say you DIED IN THE M-EFFING ARMAGEDDON??!?!!?!) This is my way of saying that I fear weird weather things and consider weather a major predictor of the Apocolypse. Maybe.

After my visit, (for which I have just been nominated for the prestigious Daughter of Millennium award, my mother is so thankful), I went and had eleventy Ravens at BP, and dem crunchy tots.

LJG was helpful to point out that 3 beers constitutes binge drinking (medical info totes courtesy Mom LJG, who you know stole it from 20/20.) K. showed pics of her niece in a velour jumpsuit bedecked with "SAWL RIVER SADDLE CLUB" or whatever embroidery, playing an autoharp like she was DJing at only the tightest New Haven club. I might (might) research kidnapping.

And then I drove home and tried to take photos of the Cavalia tents. While driving. PONYTENTS.

PS. My dog has learned a new trick. When we shoot him with a gun/finger and say bang, that is his un-PC cue to "play dead." Instead, he has learned to dramatically flip himself onto his back, stick his limbs straight out, and roll his eyes back til you only see the whites. It’s a combo of doggy seizure and rigor mortis, and it cracks my shit up, so I guess the original trick has failed but this is so much the better.

Next up I’m going to teach him to jump up and fold his paws together when I yell "AMEN BROTHER!"

The end.

* besides the dog, funniest things include an 85 year old woman ranting about clones.

Monday, November 28, 2005

If you aren't reading Kriston's new Smithsonian Museum/Art Blog, well, then - you should be. Basically, he's just scored the best job in the universe. If you aren't jealous, you probably have a steel plate in yr head.

I know, I've used that joke before, and it's terrible. Agreed. Apologies to steel-plated-head folks around the globe.

So, I know someone who recently joined the circus. Kind of. For his girlfriend.

Not just any circus, but the Pony Circus.

Perhaps you have noticed the white tent tops in Crystal City of the DC tour stop of Cavalia.(The Horse-man Bond: A World of Fantasy [!!!]) Upon further study I realized that the "C" is in the shape of a horses head. Four stars, ethereal Frenchy graphics designers!

Long story short, kid's girlfriend is a "horsegirl." You know, the girl that still has unicorn posters in her cubicle and figurines of horses on her vanity (I bet she has a vanity. With a ruffled skirt.) Chick planned it like this: instead of saving up money for the 90 dollar (!!!!) tickets to this pony circus, (Editor: and $20 just to park. WTF. PONY POWER.) she decided the more logical route would be to get a job at Cavalia: Pony Circus. Somehow, GF of the Year was also able to persuade my friend into getting a JOB at C:PC. He's been working the VIP room for the past few weeks. AND he gets free tickets to the show to give to his friends. HELLS YEAH! Guess who got to go to the pony circus.

I am not so much one of those horse girls. I've been horse back riding once in my life, while out visiting cousins on a farm in South Dakota. I think it was the same trip the I drove a tractor into the barn. Not like "carefully drove the tractor inside the barn in a proper fashion." More like, "carefully drove the tractor into the barn wall."

At any rate, I wanted to go to the pony circus. Who wouldn't? The spectacle! The smells! The souvenier pony figurines! THE MAN HORSE BOND! EWW! Pre-attendance website research showed the C:PC show to be a cross between Cirque du Soleil and ye olde renaissance fair, with more horses and less scary cleavage. To my pleasure I was not mistaken.

The show consisted of horses walking around doing what I thought was pretty much normal horse type things, while elfish acrobatic people in odd leotards and scarves and LOTR apparel were running around them in circles, and jumping on top of their poor pony backs. Truthfully, I was very disappointed that the horses didn't perform any acrobatic feats themselves.

Nor were there any unicorns or space horses, which J and I were crossing our fingers for the whole time.

We did however end up having fab seats. On one side we had a saucy black woman, yelling out "YOU GO GIRL" every time one of the female renaissance elfin womyn would jump up on a horse. The woman on my other side would moan in a way that I found inappropriate and a wee bit uncomfortable and confusing every time a horse would come out. (Editor: PONYGASM.)

A third lady fell down the stairs. Jury's still out whether she was drunk and fell down, or if she was so moved by the show that she forgot how to walk...my money really is on both. (Editor: Drunk on majestic PONY POWER.)

In short, I recommend anyone who has a friend who joined the pony circus and can get you a ticket to the show, to take them up on their offers.

Espically if he's part of the VIP crew and can hook you up with some apple cider (Editor: PONYADE) and a tour of the stables.

Back into Internet hiding. I have a job, unlike some other people. Cough. Cough.

1. Thanksgiving was the aces. The family has a tendency to pick up collegiate orphans all over the Mid-Atlantic and tease them into the back of their cars with snacks. This year, two adorable twenty-something grad students with hair like Sweet Valley High characters and awesome sweaters climbed into my Honda and traveled with us over the James River and through some woods, to my cousins house we go. The Pasadenan and a Chicagoan, who live upstairs from my younger bro’s mansionish-for-no-rent apartment, graced us with not only their presence, but also a cheese plate. (Way to my family’s heart: dairy.) I wasn’t the only one immediately smitten- these girls knew HAND JIVES. (Way to my six year old girl cousins heart: hand jives.) Also, there were two turkeys. Also, I kicked ass once again at Pictionary.

Unfortunately, the family footrace, originated in the late 80’s between my brother and my cousin, (now a mom in her forties, but still holding high school track records in the state of Michigan) was skipped this year. Lots of people are having MRIs on their knees in upcoming weeks.

My brother made my parents stay overnight in the capital of the Commonwealth just so they could all watch Hands on a Hard Body the next morning over coffee.

2. I pretty much was a hermit for the rest of my four days off, but I got some shopping accomplished, and some drinking accomplished, and my hair highlited, and then there was Friday night. (refer to #3)

3. Okay, so if I were to relate one story from the high school reunion I attended (I was +guest), I think it would be (beyond the fact that everyone was so demolished we were all lucky to be standing erect by 2 in the morning?), the one kid who looked me in the face and said “NO ONE HERE KNOWS WHO I AM” and then I said “me neither, but I didn’t go to school here” and then he said “I’m into swinging nowadays.”

This horrible bar on this horrible night.You serve as the drain in the frat house floor that every unwanted acquaintance circles on Thanksgiving Eve.I dislike you on all nights and I abominate you on this one.

There is only one guy I dislike in all of Washington and he loves you.You charge a cover for horrendous bands.Your patrons park their Honda’s Accords and SUV’s on the street and take up spaces for the superior bars and restaurants.They wear stripy shirts or black party pants and play Sister Hazel on the jukebox.Your rooms stink and windows weep with the perspiration osmosed from hundreds of in-state tuition paying clones.

Yet I see myself in everything you do.I hates me.

Update: Best Man just got back into town. Says he's talked to everybody and they're all going tonight...

Tonight is America's biggest bar night of the year, or so I've heard. Upon reflection, I believe this statement true- every year, I spend this night at a bar. A bar I hate with much passion. A bar I patronize only once a year: this very night, the night before Thanksgiving. There's reasoning behind this, which I won't get into.

This year, however, is different. A break from tradition. No reason to go to said bar terrible. Happiness n joylarity. Which begs the question, dear readers: What am I doing tonight that will still allow me to wake up at 7:30 tomorrow morning? Clocks: a tickin, times: a wastin. Suggestions welcome.

-----

Misc. Shit:

- I find Laura Veirs new album, Year of Meteors, particularly interesting, and usually this kind of music I find particularly UNinteresting. I think a Playskool-brand xylophone might be involved. Unconfirmed. Anyhoos, like "Galaxies." Yes.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

I entered the District last month and quickly broke the law. While looking for a parking spot I turned the wrong way down a one way street. I drove about ten feet before realizing my mistake but when I looked in the mirror to back up a cop was pulling in behind me. Meh. First (non-parking) ticket in a good while.

The city gives one the option of paying for small violations online, by phone or through the mail. But the following week, when I tried to pay through the electronic means, there was no record of the citation. Checked a few days later and still nothing. A call to the city yielded no record of the thing.

Every few days I would log onto the DMV site to no avail.

Until today.

It's been a month since I got the ticket. It's been a month with no record of the ticket. After a month the fine doubles. Guess what was suddenly processed a month + 1?

I'm too fucking passive and not outraged enough to do anything about this except complain on a blog read only by my wife's friends. But if this has happened to anyone else, let's cause some trouble by writing a letter to someone and perhaps mention to them our displeasure.

- "We’re working. There’re high winds at sea. Giant sheets of ice are breaking on the hull and I can feel it shake through my knees. We’re surrounded by great mountains of rock. We’ve taken lovers. We’ve crossed the threshold. We desire the Unknown. We may already be lost." Hmm, okay. The Constantines Tournament of Hearts is out. I haven't heard it yet, but Shine a Light was one of my favorite albums of 2003.

Around 7:45 PM last night, you would have found me curled up tightly in a ball on the (increasingly mud-and-decaying-leaf-caked) kitchen floor, laugh-crying so hard I couldn't breathe. I was eating a delicious granny smith apple, and looked across the room to the husband, who was watching me intently, copying my every move. But instead of eating an apple, he was eating a block of Colby Jack cheese, bigger than a newborn's head. He was eating it like an apple, big disgusting slimy yellow bites of cheese.

I may have to quit my job, or at least turn Brown Dog over to social services, complete with a dramatic and heart-wrenching Lifetime Network-y scene about how I love him but can’t take care of him, and will find him again some day. I will be back, brown dog!!!!!!! Remember me!!!!!!

* (Portland involves Rick. And Rick... well, Rick involves a number of things, as the N. is happy to tell you. Rick and the N. were roommates, once, but the two of us met Rick separately, and were friends with Rick separately; which is an unusual thing, for people like us to do the separate thing. Rick and I used to sit in the hallways of art buildings, laying on cold tiles at 3 AM; talking about life and what to do with it/about it. Rick used to dedicate Steely Dan songs to me at 3 AM, when he worked night shifts at a classic rock station. Rick had 23 majors before graduating, and a girlfriend who broke his heart. Rick works shady jobs, moving from city to city. We saw Rick at a diner two Sundays ago, we had brunch and the put him and his skateboard on a Greyhound, bound for the wild unknown.)

Stability results were low which suggests you are very worrying, insecure, emotional, and anxious.

Orderliness results were moderately high which suggests you are, at times, overly organized, reliable, neat, and hard working at the expense of flexibility, efficiency, spontaneity, and fun.

Extraversion results were moderately high which suggests you are, at times, overly talkative, outgoing, sociable and interacting at the expense of developing your own individual interests and internally based identity. (read: esp. when whiskeyed.)

Monday, November 21, 2005

I just read the below post from the other quarter of this blog and can’t figure out how we spent the weekend together yet still had completely different stories.

1. Paintball!Yeah!You know what most folks and all girls don’t like hearing stories about?Paintball!You know what I’m really good at for some reason?Paintball!So you know what I did hours before Fakesgiving and no one cared about?

1. My pathetic flag football season finally came to an end on Sunday with a crushing defeat by a much younger and faster team.(I say “finally” because it should have been over three weeks ago, as the only way my team ofold knees and swollen joints could make the playoffs was if the two teams ranked above us tied.And sure enough their game ended 0-0.)We limped into the playoffs and limped off the field like the bloody old gits we are.

Is any one going to catch that? Oh, your Achilles ruptured again? I guess I'll get it.

None of our linemen were in town so I had to block.(Today, my arms are so sore that I can’t actually lift them onto the key board to type.I have to stand up, let them dangle above the desk and then sit down when they come to a rest on the keys.I ate my Potbelly sub in the same fashion I imagine a snake would eat a Potbelly sub.) But my only good block resulted in a fight with one guy on my team pinning one guy on their team to the ground with a knee to the neck. As a result, I consider the game and season a 2-8-2 stunning success.

3. The G and I both had a problem with the Cash movie because it seemed to imply that after 1968 everything went perfectly well in the Cash/Carter household.June agrees to marry Johnny, the end, happily ever after.? No drugs, no bad times, no ostrich attacks?In reality, Cash fell back into drugs, had some bad times and was attacked by an ostrich.Where the hell was that in the movie?Instead we get the ham-fisted origin of the song Great Balls of Fire.In fact any of these would be better than Jerry Lee Lewis talking 'bout all of us going to hell and forced references to Dylan.

4. Harry Potter – Good. I don’t have much to say other than I feel like I should be forced to walk in one of those Iraqi flagellation marches for this.Elle Child: The Extra Pervy Edition.

My biggest complaint about "Ray" was (besides the fact that I saw it in Tucson, K. & I hiding out for the weekend at a friend's place, where the volume on George's insane entertainment setup was set to "deafening" [earlier in the evening, he instructed K. and I to sit on the couch and hold on to each other, because he was about to " KICK OUR ASS." He then inserted "Master & Commander," flipped to the battle scene, and commenced to shred all eardrums in a 20-mile radius until his wife yelled from the back of the house that he may have killed the small dog and the big dog had just peed on the carpet.] Anyways, movies shown at their place are painful-loud) the ending. All that build up and beuatiful shots of multi-colored glass in a tree, cold sweats and then ROLL CREDITS: "Ray kicked drugs and had a v. happy life until he died, the end." I guess that's how it really went, being a biopic and all, but ???? I wanted more???

"Walk the Line" is "Ray", only with less Jamie Foxx.

Joaquin Phoenix makes a compelling fucking JR Cash. He is handsome and hairlipped and really, did a great job at making the guy human as opposed to mere legend.

Reese Witherspoon is just a dark-haired Reese Witherspoon who chirpily announces herself as "most amusing! look at me! LOOK AT ME." throughout the whole movie, and you kind of can't help but think of her not as June whatsoever, but really just as Legally Brunette.

Baby, baby, baby, baby, BABY.

Saturday Night, Live:

It does not usually take 4 hours to get to the Cutest Lil' Country Cottage Ever, Virginia, unless I travel with K. A late start, an exploded tire on her Honda, Bridget, a TripAAA visit/car switch, and stop for candy and gas later, we made our destination. Desination was decorated with cornhusks and front porch chairs and pumpkins and dogs in bandanas and 16 people I love. I was at the kid's table this year.

It was a Fakesgiving miracle for me to end up last in the food line, making less need to actually unbutton pants as previous years have seen. I was on driving duty, as the bird flu knocked me back to only 1/10 as intoxicated as the rest of the world, or so it seemed; so all in all my gluttony took a vaca in '05. It's hard to drink when you also have to use your mouth to breathe. I did make an 11 PM beer run to Grottoes. Also, there was some downloading which including the Smooth Sax Tribute album to Michael Jackson (P.Y.T. never sounded so Kenny G.) and a folk-acoustic version of "Little Red Corvette." There was a drunken wake-up or two around 3 in the morning that I missed, because I was snoring away on our flocked-velour red air mattress in the living room after a heady discussion as to the identity of man in movie "Glory" is the same man as in "Grey's Anatomy." (He's not.)

I don't know. The sun was shining, the dessert table plentiful, the garage stocked with PBR. Two of us turned a year older, cats were there. Life is good.

* * *

Other/newsworthy:

- My draft entry on Capital File is now up to three pages in Word. Time to edit.

- Also/maybe worth noting, I missed the speaking engagement w/ Kirk Savage, "Monumental Obsolescence: The Demise of the Equestrian Statue, and Other Tales from the Nation's Capital," from his (upcoming) book Monument Wars: The Changing Memorial Landscape of Washington, D.C. (Sounds more interesting to me than his last book, I think.) Apparently it was free and down in Harrisonburg on the 3rd. Oh well.

Anyhoos, the art dept. offers up a link to an old article of his re: memorials: Savage article.

Travelling southward tomorrow for the fifth annual Fakesgiving, in which my posse makes and consumes enough food to transform into human Macy's parade floats, and drinks twice as much as we eat. I'll also be partaking in (very cold) football spectating, and annoying the everliving be-effing-jesus out of my compadres with constant sniffling. My voice is hilarious - I kind of sound like a 3-year old boy. I'm also eating* with my mouth open so I can breathe at the same time. Wicked.

I'll have more to blogggg on and on about in upcoming weeks. Right now, I'm working on transcribing the D's roving reporter update from the VIP room at Cavalia (which I may have to start a whole new blog for); and the N's small-but-significant rant re: the copy of Capital File currently sitting on our dining room table. (I've found two major typos in it without even trying. And that is nothing to do with actual content.)

More teasers for you- the next few months gives the Blanketed Pyggie: extended family time due to 2 major holidays, a high school reunion, more Capital File, and a partridge in a blog tree. It be overflowin, the content potential.

* Is there anything better than office-baby-shower food for lunch? My diet today has consisted of chocolate cake, Pepsi, chips, and a cookie. In five minutes I'll be bouncing off the walls, only to fall into a deep sugar coma five minutes after that. I totes feel yr pain.

Apologies, first, to the G. because this entry is the exact opposite of what she dreamed her blog would be like when she was a little girl 206 years ago.Apologies, second, to the rest of you who don’t care about this stuff.Apologies, third, again to the G. for making her read this even though she has the bird flu.Or monkey pox. or SARS or whatever designer illness she is currently suffering through.But, I’ve got another dissatisfaction with the Post Express sports section.The guy who does the weekly fantasy football advice is plain gawd awful.It was first noticed a couple weeks back when they suggested picking Chris Simms on the weekend his team had a bye and he was playing golf and not football.

Time for a project!Here’s a breakdown on the players recommended versus their actually performance.

Nov 4 – Week 9Brad Johnson /Vikings QB – 136 yards and 2 scoresNate Burlseon/Vikings WR – 2 catches, 16 yards and a scoreNote: He also suggested not playing Dez White and Jeff Robinson, a player who’s had 2 catches all year and one I’ve never heard of, respectively.Sage, very sage. (Not Rosenfels)

Nov 11 – Week 10Marc Bulger/Rams QB – 304 yards, one score, one pickJoe Jurevicius/Seahawks WR – 27 yards and no scoreNote: Last week, the advice was to not start Peter Warrick, the forth ranking receiver on Seattle’s bench.Again, that seems rather obvious.

Brad Johnson had an efficient game and Bulger generally plays well with Holt in the lineup (especially when they fall behind 24-9 in the third) but other than that, this advice stinks.And the Clayton thing?It was well known that the guy was sidelined with an ankle injury.I’m no Kreskin, but based on this guy’s record, you’re better off finding other counsel for you fantasy needs.

The whole office is down for the count. My o-mates and I are splitting the big bucks on antibacterial Kleenex. I am wary of things deemed antibacterial. I'm on a strict lozenge-n-drug cocktail, making my head fuzzy, so nothing today is making sense.

I also have a game tonight. It will be an astounding comic feat of slow reflexes and insanely terrible off-the-net sets, guaranteed to make our outside hitter, a guy named Steve who sports a white bandana, um... angry.

* * *

After reading Catbirdseat this morning re: Apple Box Collection, I wandered on over to XTC's page. Cripes, will you look at that discography. I occasionally forget that some bands have been around a long time. Some bands have more than two albums. No, really!

(Sidestory somewhat involving XTC, subtitled "Saved by the Bell- The College Years:" I worked as an RA to pay for my car. The building I was assigned to live in was composed of 85% male, further math-breakdown 40%/40% frat/jock, 5% athletes foot. It was simultaneously the best and worst year of my life, and some of those asshats stayed around so long they even made it to my wedding. (Unconfirmed but a pretty solid bet: they may/may not have hooked up with some of my friends that night.)

I was upstairs in an unnamed fraternity suite (think "southern", think "gentlemen") getting a key duplicated, or watching "Friday" with his roommates, or whatever you did at age 20ish/in the '90s, when I noticed an out-of-place poster hanging on the cinderblock wall.

A flood of strange emotions fills a young girl's head at a time-stopping point like this, emotions that come with a metallic taste - has she underestimated these hulking underlings; tall, white-hatted, worshipping at the altar of DMB? Beings constructed of stubbly flesh, plaid flannel and handles of Yukon Jack? Menchildren who's entire breath-cycle revolved around freshman trim?????

"You like XTC? That's cool, I never would have guessed."

At this point you can probably imagine the look that was given to me. It was as if I was a brontosaurus, and had suddenly materialized from OUTER SPACE. Turns out, it was a... "pass-down?" From an older fraternity brother? And so he had to keep it up on the wall of his dorm suite?

I'm not even sure what this means. He wasn't quite sure who XTC was.

XTC sounded like a drug so maybe that was cool, you tell me. It became my own little private thing- to know this kid was living upstairs from me, his Skylarking poster sandwiched between discongruous* wallart: Belushi in his "College" sweater, a Coors Light model.

I don't know, but it made me happy, and I used to blast my Plan 9-purchased brand new Upsy Daisy Assortment at ridiculous levels because of that particular poster; because of him, a frat guy; because of Andy Partridge; because I was 20 and liked people- a soundtrack/ode to my boozy brick little commune.

Well, that and "Mo Money Mo Problems." Obvs.)

* * *

Where was I?

I forget. Anyhoos. Send chicken noodle soup, and LUV.

* This is a word, right? Please god, do not tell me I am making up words. I blame the snot. It has a life of it's own.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Should the opportunity arise to run away with a band of gypsy carnies*, I've already got my particular brand o' GC's filofaxed away in my brain. Usually swarthy little dudes with mullets sporting bathroom-cleaning-bleach blond streaks do not impress, but when they play 25+ (I stopped counting) instruments in a variety of vaudevillian ways, then maybe hey! Being kidnapped and living in a madrigal-type covered wagon with them all wouldn't be too bad. Probably smelly, just because they are boys (not necess. because they are mod carnies) but I might learn to be okay with it. As long as I could bring along the husband and dog. I could sew costumes! Be the carnie merch girl!

I told K. that I imagine them stuffed, hanging out of windows of a beat up station wagon, playing all their many instruments as they roll down America's highways. Some of their music reminded me of TV's "Smelly Cat", played backwards, in New Orleans style swing. Living cartoons.

Transcript of a brief conversation with their drummer. I say "their drummer", but they had three people playing various percussion at one point, including what I think might be one of their dead uncle's urns or something, so your guess is good as mine:

Him: "Here. Have a promo CD."Me: "Thanks. Wait, this isn't yours."Him: "It's some band from New York, I think! It's at the front desk for free. So you can take it!"Me, reading the back of the CD: "Uh, thanks?"Him: "The back says they sound like Counting Crows. Like, Mr. Jones Counting Crows."Some Other Dude in the Band: "Who listens to Counting Crows. PEOPLE WHO WANT TO KILL THEMSELVES?????"

In conclusion: If you ever have the chance to see Man Man live, I highly recommend.

* * *

Charles Bissell was okay, too.

* * *

Okkervil, as usual, was stupendous, even at the last legs of caring about their tour. They played my four favorite songs, fangirl likes. And all was well and I indoctrinated K. into the world of liking OR. All this despite almost putting a cigarette out in the eye of some ridiculous drunk underage, splitting smokes AND A BEER (note singularity) with four other friends and then whoo-hooin' and pseudo-moshing (at IOTA. for OKKERVIL.) Anyways, kid, yr hat was stupid and so was yr hemp necklace and yr girl's glitter tee.

Fact: I can't got to concerts any longer. I'm just too bitchy.

Other notes: The N. got loads of nice pics to send to family members. Travis is dating an adorable librarian with curly hair and a sweet smile who was flying home today. Next up for band comes Australia. Feelings seem to be that the Australian record label may/may not be run by a 15 year old out of his ma's basement. Sleeping on floors/no drivers/small clubs is so three years ago. Fame, it's knocking.

* Listen, I know. How many derogatory descriptions can I use in one post? I KNOW. I know.

Monday, November 14, 2005

To sum up my time in the Denver airport: First, the cancelled and/or missed flight. Then, the overbooking. Then, the shuttle ride with several thousand smokey-drunk fellow United passengers trying to get to Philly. Then, A PLANE HIT A DEER. I'm at the hotel now. Whatever. Tequila and tonic?

My friends are now using Lost plotlines in real-as-life sitches.

Wrap up: Good weekend, lots of food, and adorable babies. Black Keys had three encores, my hamstrings were tight and I ended up leaning against the bar like an 85 year old with chronic hump-backness. We got a peck of apples yesterday, maybe I'll learn to make pie crust.

Friday, November 11, 2005

Day off! Leftover barbeque, "Batman" on DVD, bed linens changed, and the dog has had even a bath - kind of smells like orange sorbert. I might start drinking beers in an hour or so. Not much else to report, except for that UR reports Fox is cancelling "Arrested Development" and replacing it with reruns of "Prison Break," so my faith in humanity has officially withered to the size of a tiny raisin.

(Oh. Now I feel bad. Shannon had to be scrappy! Shannon had to manipulate her way through life! Shannon was, in effect, Cinderella! All Shannon wanted was to be a ballerina. Poor Shannon.

But listen, everyone should have seen that coming from the first five minutes. If there is anything to be learned from Sexy Teen Horror Movies, it's that you DON'T PUT OUT. Unless you want to die. Who's with me?)

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

I grew up with lots of Mormons. I have been on several awkward dates with Mormons. After college, I briefly moved to a geographic locale composed 98% or so of LDS. I have been to a Mormon wedding (not in temple, natch), a Mormon funeral, and too many Mormon HS stake dances to count. I owned a BYU sweatshirt, and have read Under the Banner of Heaven.

I don't know why I just told you all that.

Oh! This. According to the Internet, the best quote from the movie "New York Doll" is from David Johansen: "And now the man who after this is going to sing some songs at the children's hospital to cheer them up... Morrissey." (via blurbomat)

I'm looking forward to seeing this. Even though I still haven't seen this, which I once predicted I'd be first in line for. Oops. Rock films, why do I sleep on you.

(PS: SHANNON GETS IT!!! Imagine me doing a slit-the-throat motion with my finger right now. Actually, I'm not sure, but a girl can dream. It'd be like junior high revenge on all those girls you knew in 6th grade PE. You knew the Shannons. You did.)

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

The dog and I had to drag the G’s carcass out of bed this morning so she could vote and perform her sole civic duty of the year. (Mine too) I have to admit that I’m going to miss this year’s political season as it has been ever so intrusive. It felt like I had made two new, super-clingy friends. Ones that would send me things in the mail every day and call during dinner and 50 times on the weekends. And then, if they felt I was losing interest in our relationship, they would get their friends like George Allen and Mark Warner to call and remind me how great they are.

Being a responsible citizen, I did some research before I threw my vote away and spent ten minutes on the internets before going to the community center. But I wasn’t able to get anywhere deeper than judging them on their superficial characteristics.Again, it’s like having two new friends.

Whenever I heard Kilgore on TV or his robotic double called our house, all I could hear was this. Which is fine because every time I saw Kaine, all I could see was this.

So, no matter who wins, our commonwealth’s highest official will now be known as Governor Huckleberry in the Pyggy household.

As for Mr. 4%, Russ Potts, I’d pictured him looking like the guy who ran the rival airline counter on Wings but was disappointed to see he looks just like your normal southern VA politician.Though, having him in the race has been helpful. Kilgore’s people called a few weeks and asked if I would be interested in canvassing in my neighborhood.Unwilling to give up any valuable lying-on-the-floor-listening-to-ipod time, I politely declined.But the guy had a script and kept pressing until I volunteered I was a Potts Man to the core.He got huffy, hung up and let me go back to my floor.

Also, the Post’s Kilgore profile last week offered one of those unexpected yet ordinary details about someone, like when you find out a college friend has an identical twin. In this case, it was that Jerry Kilgore has an identical twin. My initial reaction upon seeing Terry Kilgore’s picture was, “So how did they decide which brother gets the mustache?”, especially since I was under the incorrect assumption that the boys were the sons of country music songwriting legend Merle Kilgore and his fabulous 'stache. (They're not. I knew ol’ Merle wouldn’t have named his twins Jerry and Terry.) But then I found this old photo of Jerry.

Maybe the Brothers Kilgore flipped a coin because it looks like the bare upper lip for Jerry is a new development.The image consultant who shaved that off should get a cushy political appointment if he wins wins, like Ambassador to Foxfields.

There's been eleventy and a half feminist bloggers already mention these, so I really doubt I have much quality to add to the topic. Just one little thing....

(Background: as of Sunday, Internets was reporting that "some" of the shirts were being pulled from stores. Part of their response was due to a few young women - what I'm sure spokespeople at A&F viewed as "cheeky Alleghany County girls who started an adorable and precious lil' boycott/girlcott, just the kind of female Americans who represent Abercrombie Girlswear!" Sigh, whatever. I hate the talkie talkie businesspeople, they make my head hurt. Except, they haven't really been pulled. I just logged online (btw - is Abercrombie and Fitch SFW? I don't know. I do know there is a half-naked teen boy with a far-off glazed/come-hither/naked torso look on the front splash, so watch yr back, guvment employees!!!) and why hello. Still up for purchase! You can buy any of them you so desire, except for the "Who Needs Brains When You Have These?" and ""Anatomy Tutor" versions. Those, now, those shirts just really crossed a line. My personal favorite is the Fat one. I just love it. I want it in ROY G BIV, a different color for every day. If we've learned anything in these recent heady, glorious years, it's that anorexia nervosa is the hep.)

Anyways- besides being offensive and degrading, and big corporation using woman as weapons against themselves, so on/such forth/misc/etc/, I haven't read anywhere else comments on the shokingly obvious:

Nothing else much. Besides breaking the everliving shit out of the Reverend, it's been a pretty good day. I voted. The toddlers at the church preschool were out in their little fenced babycage area for lunch, and they were rolling down the hill like kids do, on their sides, arms crossed tightly across their chests. Except they kept rolling into each other, and it was turning into this giant baby boulder, tumbling tumbling tumbling.

Anyways, here's my dog. He is awesome. He kind of smells like a goat today.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Okay, I am a complete moron. Last night, there was an Elliptical Machine incident, resulting in me dropping the Honorable Reverend Bellewether Smacklesford (my Ipod). I've dropped it many times before, but this time, that stupid slut Karma decided it should hit a metal support-thingy on the machine.

Good news: it still plays just fine. Bad news: The screen is cracked to holy hell, so you can't see anything on it.

Questions, geekies: Can I get this fixed? Can I get this fixed and not lose any of my music? I mean, I could just back it all up and then re-load it if necessary, but I'm lazy.

As the holiday season approaches, we must prepare ourselves for our single interaction of the year.Please be reminded that all of your children’s friends have aged years, if not decades, and have done many new, compelling and entertaining things.If you must reference our childish actions please make sure to attach the correct actions to the appropriate child.

To Mrs CBCS, specifically, at a recent celebration you recounted a humorous story about your son and his friends and incorrectly included me in the trespass.Though, our relationship is about as adversarial as a mother/friend of son’s could be, I’d appreciate not getting blamed for things I was not a part of.

Below are the things I can/can not take responsibility for in relation to you or your home.

I did not break any windows.

I did not throw your Yorkie across the room into the wall.

I did not hog-tie your daughter with an extension cord and toss her into the front yard.

I did not climb through the 2nd floor window to gain access to liquor when your son wasn’t in town.

I did not rip the black plastic storm drain extensions out of the front lawn to make a Halloween costume.

I did not Stick a Hi. My Name is “Fuckface” sticker on the passenger car door just before you picked up clients.

You never hired me to mow the lawn and rake the leaves.Nor did I ever subcontract the job to a young neighbor for half the money.

I did not fell a tree at your company’s golf tournament by driving a cart into it.

I did not steal your car to go drink in a public park.Nor did I throw up out the passenger window with such force that it blew through the back window onto the upholstery and into the mouth of your unconscious son.

I continuously stashed beer under your deck for several years.

I used your “hidden” key to hang out at your house after skipping class.

I drank beer on your roof and let the empties roll into the neighbor’s lawn.

I announced that items in the refrigerator were several years past their expiration date at your annual Christmas party.

I stole bottles of wine and beer from the following year’s Christmas party.

I declared that anyone who would drop out of my college either came to school with emotional baggage or a mental problem moments before your new husband announced your stepson had dropped out the previous semester, at the following year’s Christmas party.

And finally, though you were kind enough to invite me to your second wedding, I repaid the deed by stealing a golf cart and destroying the 18th green and driving so recklessly that the teenage daughter of your Maid of Honor fell out and cut her hands and knees on the cart path.Back at the club house, I stole bottles of booze and cigars from behind the bar, posed your nearly alcohol poisoned son in comical Weekend at Bernie’s-like poses in family pictures, drove him home drunk, put him in your bed when I was to tired to drag him upstairs and didn’t clean up when he vomited on the floor.These actions resulted in your new husband being called in front of his country club’s board and having his membership suspended for 6 months.

If necessary, I can draw up similar lists for you other parents who I will be seeing soon.

I'm going to start marketing my own brand of shoes to the new generation of skatepunks. Instead of Airwalks, they will be called "Crabwalks." I believe my target demo to be anyone excited by the release of this summer's hottest Abercrombie and Fitch inspired movie, "Blue Crush. Which, of course, I am seeing posthaste.

* * *

I spent the entire weekend going batshit-woman-crazy for no apparent reason; nothing angers me more than self-fulfilling stereotypes and yet here I am, Ms. Weepy American 2005! I picked fights, bought The Books and The Medications from CD Cellar, went to Target, saw "Jarhead," ate Mexican food, made potato salad, worked for a few hours on Sunday, and took 2 long walks (meeting 1. an older woman German tourist who kind of resembled a drag queen, but an vaguely attractive one in a wrinkly, big-hand kind of way, chainsmoking near the Roosevelt Memorial who commented on my dog’s probable German heritage; and 2. a large man on a bicycle who was millimeters away from plunging into the Tidal Basin because of the elaborate and seemingly heavy fishing gear/tackle box/milk crate sculpture attached to his rear fender. I spent a lot of time thinking about what I would do if he had fallen in. I’m still not certain I have an answer.)

Tomorrow, there is a film screening going down in a Cleveland Park bar. It’s for friends/relations of mine. You should come, or at least email me for info if you are interested and feel like maybe you would like to come, or email me for info and lie and say you will make it if you can and then not show up anyways. It has something to do with cartoons, and Brazilian culture, and maybe Satan???? I’m not really clear on the details, but you should be intrigued by this point.

* * *

In related technology news, I'm developing a program that will immediately place any manipulative emails from your exes into the your junk mail folder, along with an autoreply of an email with an animated .gif of a Mummenshantz guy giving the sender the finger. I'm calling it iThoughtyouknew. – Miles Raymer

Friday, November 04, 2005

- Am I the only one who actually giggled when I saw that Pitchfork recently reviewed.... The Band retrospective? I was just surprised, that's all.

More reverting:

1. I spent a long time yesterday googling punk bands who are composed of kids I think I used to babysit. Their names are awesome. They are also dark and deep and SERIOUS. Hollaback, Malady. Four stars, Pygmy Lush!

2. I'm going to a high school football game tonight (! ! !), and then maybe afterwards out for pizza? Or a movie? Plans are hazy. Look for a stunning social commentary on today's youth, maybe Monday.

Looks like I can continue to keep the snow tire chains on my SUV and tear up the District's streets without the fear of a commuter tax. Enjoy your potholes DC, I'm going back to the burbs!

Thanks Supreme Court Chief Justice John Roberts. You're aces!

WASHINGTON (AP) - A federal appeals court has ruled that Congress has the right to prevent the D-C government from imposing a commuter tax.The U-S Court of Appeals for D-C ruled that "it is beyond question that the Constitution grants Congress exclusive authority to govern the District." The opinion was written by Judge John Roberts, who is now Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.A lower court judge last year dismissed the suit brought by more than 30 plaintiffs including Mayor Tony Williams and the D-C Council. They tried to overturn a federal law banning the city from taxing the estimated half (m) million people who work in D-C but live elsewhere.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

With a move to a new office, and less time at home around noonish every day to do anything than pick up hound dog poo, I've been making my lunch and bringing it to my desk. Okay, in all honesty, having someone else in the house make my lunch for me, so I can bring it back to my desk. I am lazy. (Option #3 has been simply munching on whatever crackers happen to be in my file cabinet, grabbing a few carrot sticks from the communcal fridge, drinking coffee all day, and crossing my fingers on that whole nutrition thing. In return, my metabolism has effectively raised two giant middle fingers in a sweet punk-rock-fuck-you salute. So, this is quickly becoming no longer an option. In the year 2026, this blog will devolve into nothing more than dieting tips and bitching about daycare?? and it will have holograms!)

okay no it won't.)

But FYI, the past few days, I've become slightly obsessed with bento box lunches. Adorable tiny snacks for lunch! This is something I can really get behind! It involves small pieces of food in a huge ADD variety, and complete impracticality. That's so hot. But not the corresponding "Hello Kitty" obsession with some of these people on the internet. Not so hot. For the most part, though, I could get into the food. And the separated food compartment plates, like cafeteria trays from elementary school. (PS Teachers: note: If someone could please score me some cafeteria trays from an elementary school, I'd be so psyched. Seafoam green ones.)

I've spent most of my morning being productive. By productive I mean typing all my friend's names into Google Print. There has to be obscure, non-copywrited characters who are based on these people by now. And if not, WHY not? Authors, you are missing out.

Man alives, is it ever going to be hard to blog today, what with ROYALTY (!!!!!!!!!) in town-n-all. I just don't know what I could ever write about that would....

okay, so when Princess Diana was tragically killed? It was, I think, the last weekend of my singledom. I was wearing cutoffs, and was attending a basement party (at a fraternity?), drinking skanky keg beer with guys in hemp necklaces. I went with a girl named Jen, who was big into showtunes and sleeping with frat guys in hemp necklaces who threw parties in basements. And the "dj" (probably a sophomore econ major named Seth, decked out in County Seat stripey-sweaters, but that's just a best guess: I give it a 92% chance I'm right on) was playing Aquarium's "Barbie Girl," (like, a PRE-RELEASE!!!) and the record screeched to a halt (okay, I'm sure it was a CD, but since I'm reliving this college memory in a movie script, let's just pretend that the typical vinyl "screech" really happened), and someone got over the loudspeaker and said "Announcement: a moment of silence, Princess Diana has just passed away."

Just like Jerry Kilgore, it seems, I get the occasional hankering for Dairy Queen Blizzards. (More on our potential governor later.) In fact it may or may not have been one of the reasons I used a sick day last week. I held off from making the DQ run until mid-afternoon but eventually caved and headed to the one in Bailey's Crossroads. Upon walking through the door, I was greeted with the sight of several elderly couples enjoys their MooLates and Peanut Buster® Parfaitsand the calming diapason of Lil' Jon & the Eastside Boyz.

TO THE WINDOW, TO THE WALL! TO THE SWEAT DRIP DOWN MY BALLS! SKEET! SKEET! SKEET!

Yikes! It was blasting loud too. Here's the video. Here's the lyrics. Young people (employees, Nabob) were head bobbing. Old people seemed mildly annoyed, though I think this was a generic response to loud hip-hop instead of an actual comprehension of the lyrics.

Remember when CB4 came out and the most vulgar song they could come up with was Sweat From My Balls? (And the biggest rock performer they could get to talk about it was Gibby Haynes from the Butthole Surfers?) Whatever happened to those innocent days? Those were alright times.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

All the left-over candy has been brought in and deposited about 10 feet from me. I resisted so well for the first 20 minutes. But now... blaargh...feel so gross.

But I haven't been able to find the person who brought in the bag of Mary Janes - the worst Halloween candy ever squirted through a tube. (Or however they evilly concoct it)

Barf.

As a kiddie, given the option of the lady that gave out May Janes and the man that gave out little Bibles, I would gladly sit through 10 minutes of how Zillah beget Tubalcain. (Though, the best house was the lady that let you take two handfuls of pennies. Me, "68 mother fucking cents! Hell yeah!" Dad: "Great, more God Damn pennies." Mom: "Shhh! The bible house guy can hear you blaspheming.") I can't even remember what they exactly taste like other than bad. And I'm not willing to try it now. Not even for a highly scientific website like this.

Speaking of science, extensive Mary Jane research resulted in this...

The hanger indicates it may be life-size. Halloween 2006 costume, we have a front runner.

And.....

Directed toward our neighbors: just because we live in the suburbs doesn't mean we are (or should be) insulated from minorities. As several dog walkers met on the sidewalk last night, well past the Bob da Builders' and Dora da Explorers' bed times, I heard some quality subtle racism. What's the with the complaints of kids being driven in by their parents to walk through our 'hood? The only families I saw doing this were Hispanic and there were about 6 total children. Were you so dangerously low on candy that you had to object?

We live in a neighborhood of 140 houses with perhaps 12 kids and 10 of them are toddlers and are too young to go out. If someone wants to drive their kid from a not-so-nice area to our Community Flower Landscaping Award winning neighborhood, then I got no problem.

5. I just got an email w/ pic from my friend Mike, who went as the Verizon "can you hear me now" guy for Halloween? It was spooky/uncanny.

6. (Can I wear green Wellingtons to a wedding? Is this uncouth?)

* * *

I'm going to eat grilled cheese tonight at GH. L'chiam and stuff to newbies who don't change my old standbyes. Thanks, Lary. It would be hard to put out the search beacon for new NoVa cheez haunts. I'm lazy. I do not have my shit together to head downtown. HARD.

* I Am Cute: When I reminded the Nabob that Okkervil was playing on the 14th, he asked who was oopening and I said "Charles Mann." The correct answer is, of course, Charles Bissell.